


The Pleasure of a Dance

by afterandalasia



Category: Cinderella (1950)
Genre: 19th Century, 19th Century Fashion, All Roads Lead to Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: disney_kink, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, POV Cinderella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:06:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cinderella goes to the ball in her mother's dress, instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pleasure of a Dance

**Author's Note:**

> From the [anon prompt](http://disney-kink.livejournal.com/4400.html?thread=3705904#t3705904) at Disney Kink.
> 
> Beware: nerdy discussion of nineteenth century fashion ahead! Cinderella, as much as I love you, that pink dress was a little bit questionable at best.

“We will be leaving at the end of the ball, and no sooner, Cinderella. Do not expect anything else.”  
  
“Of course now, Stepmother.”  
  
It felt as if there was no room in her for anything other than elation, her heart feeling so light that it might break free from her chest and fly. She had learnt not to think too much of the way that her stepmother smirked at her, or how Anastasia and Drizella utterly failed to hide sniggers behind their hands. All that Cinderella cared to do was look from the window of the carriage and watch, with bated breath, the approaching castle glowing silver-blue in the moonlight.  
  
It was not until they enter the castle without her that she began to feel flickers of concern. Not until she heard giggles from behind her, quickly hidden by fans before she could turn and see them, that she realised that something is wrong.  
  
“Did you see her dress?”  
  
“How heavy the fabric looks! Why, it seems almost a cretonne!”  
  
“And those _beads_ , where did she find those?”  
  
“Showing her petticoats! Such a disgrace!”  
  
“And _what_ a neckline?”  
  
Far in front of her, she heard the announcement: _“Lady Tremaine, and her daughters Anastasia and Drizella Tremaine,”_ and realised that she had been left here. She would not be announced.  
  
“I wonder if she realises they wanted girls eligible to marry a _Prince_ , and not a footman!”  
  
Her elation shattered; choking back a sob, Cinderella fled the hall with its vicious words and sugar-coated poison looks, disappearing into the gardens. Tears rolled down her face as she hid herself from the light, finding herself in a forgotten bower surrounded by drooping honeysuckle and pretty narcissus with their petals almost closed.  
  
She could not remember her mother in this dress; could not remember her mother at all, truth be told. But her father had talked about her mother with such wonder in his voice and soft love in his eyes, and even then she had longed to meet a man who might talk about her in that way.  
  
She ran her fingers over the bright pink silk. True, it was a little heavier than was the fashion in these days, but that did not make it terrible. And everyone said that pink looked its best on girls with blonde hair. Perhaps she should not have worn the beads – they were after all a very different colour – but for once, just once, she had wanted to wear something _unnecessary_. Something that was not required for cleaning or keeping her clothes protected.   
  
Slipping the beads back over her head, Cinderella scrunched them into a ball in one hand, wiping her cheek with the back of the other. Perhaps her stepmother was right. Perhaps she was fit for nothing more than being a scullery maid.  
  
Another fresh wave of tears caught at her, tiredness aching in her bones from her day’s work, and she suppressed another sob. Her vision wavered, and for a moment she did not see the white object being extended towards her.  
  
“Here,” said a male voice, gentle and warm. “Take this.”  
  
“Oh!” Leaping to her feet, Cinderella drew away, hands coming up to her chest as if to protect herself. She could see the man clearly now: he was young, dark-haired and handsome, wearing some sort of cream military tunic, and extending towards her a handkerchief. “Oh, sir, I must apologise, please...”  
  
She went to flee, but his hand wrapped gently around her forearm and drew her back. It was the height of bad manners to touch a lady so, and she almost recoiled, but there was something in the warmth of his touch that made her look around and meet his eyes again. They were very dark, but tender, and she allowed the silk handkerchief to be pressed into her hand before he drew away.

“If you wished to apologise for being in the gardens, then it is hardly necessary,” he said, as she wiped away her tears, “when I am here as well. If it was for crying, why, you have stopped; and if it was for startling so then I have only myself to blame.” His tone was so warm that she managed a faint smile. “Which must lead me to conclude that you wished to apologise for being so unimaginably beautiful as to have caught me entirely off-guard, which is certainly far from a sin.”  
  
Heat and colour rushed to her cheeks as, eyes widening, she stared at him. In her hand-me-down dress that the other women had sneered at, with pink cheeks and nose from crying, with skin made golden by the sun and rough with work, and he called her beautiful? Never had such a word been applied to her.  
  
It did not escape her, though, that she was in a secluded place with a strange man. She pushed the crumpled handkerchief back into his hands. “I thank you for your kind words, sir, and for your ’kerchief, but I really must go.”  
  
The faint sound of music drifted through the trees. It had been so long since she had heard any music other than that produced in her own home.  
  
“Please.” His hand brushed against her arm again, and although the night was not cold his touch was pleasantly warm. “First... may I have the honour of this dance?”  
  
When she was a little girl, her father taught her how to dance, but she had not done so since then. Still, it flowed from her effortlessly as she allowed him to take her hand, lead her out onto the moonlit lawn where there is space, and bow as she curtseys. His hand smoothed round to touch her shoulder blade as she rested her hand against his upper arm, and their eyes held together as the music of the waltz surrounded them.  
  
“Alas,” he said quietly, “that there are none to introduce us. In their absence, may I make so bold as to ask your name?”  
  
“Cinderella. My... I am called Cinderella.”  
  
“Cinderella.” He repeated it softly, as if tasting it on his tongue, the word sounding pleasant in his mouth and not an affront. “I have not heard such a name before. It is a pleasure to meet you, Cinderella.”  
  
It had been so many years since there had not been a sting of pain in her chest whenever someone used the name that her stepmother had flung upon her. “And yours, kind sir?”  
  
“Christopher.” The word was so quiet that she almost did not hear it, as if it did not matter. Finally, though, Cinderella gave her fullest, brightest smile for him, and even as the music changed they danced on, uncaring of the passing time or of the calls coming, from towards the castle, for someone obviously much needed inside.  
  
It was only much later that she would even remember that Christopher was the name of the Prince. By then, though, neither of them much cared at all.


End file.
